


Slowly, Gently, But Surely

by romilly57



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 11:37:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8711131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romilly57/pseuds/romilly57
Summary: There’s no need to rush now. He can see his future unfolding before him and he is certain, for the first time, that they will get there. The cottage in Sussex, their first dog and their third dog, and late night chases through the streets of London all patiently await them.He lets out a deep breath as his eyes find Sherlock’s.“You’re home.”





	

The wind blew gently through the open windows at 221B on that particular Sunday. The streets outside were quiet, echoing the mood inside the flat. It was an ordinary day, just like any other; the sole inhabitant busied himself with experiments that occupied his time more than his brain. It was just an ordinary day - until suddenly it wasn’t. On that particular Sunday, John moved back in.

\------------------------

He’s tired and the stress makes him appear older than his years. He thought he would feel sad or angry in the aftermath of everything, but he can’t seem to locate those emotions. Instead, he feels equal parts numb and hopeful. He’s already unpacked his suitcase in the bedroom that was his, the bedroom that was always going to be his, and he realizes that he already feels more at home than he ever did with her. Baker Street, Sherlock - the life that he stumbled into by accident at the moment when death seemed more enticing than life - it was all still here. Bruised and worn down a bit, but still here, waiting for him.

Clouds of dust escape his chair as he eases into it, a quiet declaration that no one else has taken his place. Without both chairs, without both occupants, the flat on Baker Street is just walls and creaky floors. They’ve both experienced that emptiness - the feeling of home that jumped off St. Barts that day and never returned. As the dust settles around his chair, however, _home_ plants itself firmly into the floorboards, hangs itself on the walls like wallpaper, and calls attention to itself with the whistle of the kettle.

There’s no need to rush now. He can see his future unfolding before him and he is certain, for the first time, that they will get there. The cottage in Sussex, their first dog and their third dog, and late night chases through the streets of London all patiently await them.

He lets out a deep breath as his eyes find Sherlock’s.

“You’re home.”

Sherlock’s eyes linger on John’s face as he smiles and releases a contented sigh. Nothing else needs to be said in this moment. John picks up the paper and unfolds it in his lap, just as he will do next Sunday and the Sunday after that.

The day continues at this pace. Cups of tea are made, take-away is ordered, and the content residents of 221B share small smiles and light touches that are brimming with possibility. They still need time to heal, but they are healing together now - suturing themselves to each other little by little.

\------------------------

The following day sets a quicker pace. Lestrade phones with a double murder in the Cotswolds before John finishes his first cup of tea. Fifteen minutes of hurried showering and dressing and a two hour train ride later, John and Sherlock find themselves in the middle of nowhere. Picturesque, to be sure, but decidedly more rural than either of them prefer. Still, John thinks, a mini holiday is not unwelcome after the tumult they’ve both experienced. And a mini holiday coupled with two dead bodies sounds just about perfect for them.

“A woman walking her dog found them in the field early this morning. We estimate that they’ve been dead about six hours now. They have no known relation to each other, so we’re basically starting from scratch. Have a look around and let me know when you’ve got something.”

“Will do, Greg,” John says, even though he knows it will be Sherlock who discovers all the pertinent information. John smiles briefly to himself as he realizes that he gets to witness Sherlock’s brilliancy for the rest of his life. Realizations like this come in waves - slowly, gently, but surely. Everything that once seemed so improbable, so impossible even, is unfurling in a way that he scarcely dared dream.

\------------------------

Sherlock solves the case by mid-afternoon. The train back to London doesn’t depart for several hours, so Sherlock suggests a walk through one of the small villages that surround them. As they begin a leisurely walk past the quaint buildings and through the beautiful meadows for which the area is known, John takes Sherlock’s hand in his. It’s a simple gesture really, but it serves as a quiet declaration of everything that they are to each other. Sherlock looks down at their interlaced fingers and smiles. John's heart beats loudly in his chest and his cheeks turn slightly pink. This isn’t the first time that either of them have experienced intimacy. But intimacy like this, well, intimacy like this is something else entirely. It’s a connection that only the fates could weave together.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asks after long moments of companionable silence. John is instantly transported back to that night at the abandoned school so many years ago. That night when he knew, for the first time in a long time, that he wanted to live. That he wanted this utterly ridiculous life that Sherlock was offering him. Surfacing from his reverie, he looks intently into Sherlock’s verdigris eyes. “Starving.” Sherlock’s responding smile is incandescent.

\------------------------

They share generous portions of food and wine at a restaurant overlooking sheep-dotted farmland. The air between them is light but electric. There is no need to give voice to the warmth they are both radiating, however. Their lingering glances and slow smiles communicate more than they could ever articulate.

As they step outside the restaurant and prepare to return to London, John knows that this could be the moment. He could look directly into Sherlock’s eyes, tilt his head up, and lock their lips together - finally acting upon all that has existed just below the surface for so many years. He could taste the wine on Sherlock’s lips and the saltiness of the tears falling gently from his eyes.

But, somehow, even after all the waiting they’ve done, John decides that he wants to wait just a little longer.

221B is the site of so many _almosts_ \- _almost_ passionate kisses, _almost_ declarations of love, _almost_ proposals to spend their lives together - that it’s the only place John has ever imagined kissing Sherlock for the first time. The only place he's ever imagined telling Sherlock that he always has and always will love him. The first place he wants to take Sherlock by the hand and guide him to bed.

So he waits. He reaches for Sherlock’s hand and they make their way back to London, back to Baker Street.

As they step inside 221B and close the door behind them, John feels his heart beat steadily inside his chest. He’s not nervous. He’s never been more certain of anything in his life. He looks up and sees Sherlock looking back at him. With tears stinging the corner of his eyes, John takes one step towards him.

Finally, _finally_ , they are home. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading <3\. Apologies if there are errors (let me know in the comments!).
> 
> Follow me on tumblr! beekeepers-in-love.tumblr.com


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